


Beautiful goddamn day

by Butterhawk



Category: Sand Castle (2017)
Genre: Angst, Death, Derogatory Language, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Iraq War, M/M, Roughness, bad language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 05:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18910393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterhawk/pseuds/Butterhawk
Summary: “Come here” Harper points to the spot in front of him and even though Matt wants to answer: ‘what for?’ He does it. Crawls the short distance on his knees with his gaze lowered as the sergeant uses his teeth to slowly remove his gloves, bites down on a leathery finger and pulls.He starts by just running his hands through Ocres wet hair and Matt eventually closes his eyes, just wants a friendly touch instead of all these bullets and deaths.~~Ocre tries to be one of the soldiers while wanting to go home. Harper sees Ocre like a lost puppy in need of guidance and comfort.





	Beautiful goddamn day

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno.. It sorta just popped up while watching and took a while, Didn't know where to start, to stop, etc. Anyway, enjoy it.

”The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.”  
Douglas MacArthur

 

“A door did that?”  
“Yeah.”  
“I’ve seen guys rolling out with a lot worse.”

Yeah, guys that wanted to be there. Matt did not. He only enrolled for the college money and he’s sure everyone knows, like they can smell it on him, somehow.

It’s the eyes. Those baby blue ones keep looking at the world like it’s big and scary and all he wants to do is hide behind his mother's skirt.

Or at least that's what Harper thinks when he first sees him.

That hand injury just makes it worse. No one in their right fucking mind would believe a Humvee door just slammed it a couple of times just by itself. It’s self-sustained and everyone knows it, still, they smile and pat him on the back. Why fall out with someone who has your six? Or is supposed to have it. Ocre needs to toughen up.

~

“Hey, you smell that?”  
”Smells like pussy.”  
“No, Why would it smell like pussy? Oh, hey, Ocre.”  
“What's up?” Enzo chimes in “We were just talking about you.”

A friendly banter, but a gibe at the same time. They might as well call him a ‘Blue Falcon’. The kid is nice enough, but he’s more of a weakness than an asset.

“You look like shit.” That’s Chutsky for you, always going straight to the jugular but Matt answers all the same. Like he doesn’t give a shit. And maybe he doesn’t?

“That malaria pill is giving me nightmares.”  
“This whole place, is a nightmare, man.

Like that Sepultura song they seem to have on repeat when they work out. The album has at least fifteen other tracks yet there it is. Over and bloody over.  
Harper turns around, ignoring the tv for a little just like he seems to be able to ignore the music they play. He’s the oldest of the bunch and does seem to take the more fatherly approach rather than beating them with the stick when he wants something done, and when he has that stupid mug of his with him you know he’s in a relaxed state. Enjoying the coffee he’s bought at the local green bean.

So... what'd the doc say?”  
“Yeah. I'm good.”  
“Welcome back.”

~

The morning they are staging Matt finds Harper checking out the Humvee, making sure everything is in order. He doesn’t like the thought of having to rely on someone else doing a good job. Not when his and the boys' asses are on the line.

Matt has that look in his eyes again, like he wants to make a run for it and looks even younger without his cap on. Thinking he better talk to him now rather than later, he asks Ocre why the fuck he’s here and not anywhere else? He’d probably be a lot happier and safer.

“My dad was in, my granddad. Something you did, you know?”

Harper does know. Some families are just like that, either you’re in an everyone gets teary eyed but oh so proud, or you do something completely different and even your grandma gives you the stink eye.  
Matt does seem like a nice kid though. Smart but sensitive. He’ll probably end up dead in some Hajji kitchen, shot by the child he thought he was saving.

~

They rolled out at nightfall, towards Baghdad. All the trucks creating one hell of a sand smoke and taillights glowing red in the dark like a bad omen. Chutsky was smoking; he even offered Matt one, his profile lighting up with each slow drag and Ocre watched out of the corner of his eye, feeling slightly calmer because of it. Harper was sitting in the front seat looking like he’s seen it all and was bored already.

~

Later that week Ocre and Chutsky end up on the roof being pinned down by a sniper, the later calls for an airstrike and panic sets in the pit of Matt’s stomach and there is nothing he can do about it. Just a few days have passed since they left the staging area and he had seen action and lived through it, he was kind of thinking he might even make it back home. But then this Texas idiot starts to make it hard.  
They are too close! Too fucking close! Goddammit!  
If the sergeant wants to risk his like that fine, but this is absolute bullshit.  
“Can I move? Do we have time to move?!” The air burns in the back of his throat but it’s just the moon dust of this place, getting everywhere, even in the crack of his ass. All he has for cover is a satellite dish.  
“No, we don't have time to fuckin' move. We called in an airstrike. Stay put.”

He mutters about sand, sweat, and balls but Matt isn’t listening anymore, knowing Chutsky; it’s not important anyhow. That guy would talk out loud even if he was alone.

The hotel goes boom and the Texan yells as he cheers. Matt is still lying flat on his belly on the roof, ears ringing so loud it’s making his teeth ache and he even has the time to wonder if it will ever stop. Watching the other soldier mouth something he kind of hope it won’t.  
There were people in there, god only knows how many and he’s got this feeling; like he’s scared he’ll go numb. Lose his humanity, his hope.

Become Chutsky.

“Ocre! Ocre?! You’re about to puke?”  
“..I’m good..” he manages to get out, feeling as weak and dangerous as a kitten

Last mission; and it’s a wrap baby. Time to go home! Or at least back to shower. Enzo and Burton are already thinking about all the titties just waiting for them when they get home. Colour, sizes.  
Harper is half listening as he waits for the last of his boys to join, the humvee speeding to the meeting point. He’s not surprised when he sees the look on Ocre ashen face, but he is when he sees the younger man's blue eyes light up when he beckons him closer.  
Like calling on a puppy.

“Good job private Ocre!”

~

They get to stay in what looks like one of Saddam Hussein's many places. Or mansions really. Or maybe palace is the right word? A golden dome on the top and a dried out fountain in front of the house. A place to rest up before they get to catch that sweet plane back to the US of A.

So much space and marble! Bigass rooms with antique-looking furniture and gilded toilets; like that was what everyone needed. Heavy drapes cover some of the windows and the soldiers are jumping on the beds like kids, rifling through all the stuff that was left behind when the previous owner; ‘The Butcher of Baghdad’ being on the run or wherever he was. Harper was following that much closer than he was. Last time he checked Saddam had given a three-hour interview to Dan Rather on CBS News, for his knowledge they hadn’t caught him yet which made this feeling all the worse.  
They were in a man’s home. A terrible dictator of man yes. But it felt wrong, the whole thing was just a big clusterfuck. Still, people were taking photos, sliding down banisters, taking a dip in the big indoor pool.

Matt ended up in what looked like a big reception room, or maybe it was a sort of waiting room? There was a broken piano on the other end and the two sofas didn’t exactly look very comfy but he sat with a groan nonetheless.

He was done in. Detached and somber, and all of a sudden on the verge to actual tears and wiped an eye with his thumb. Not that guys cry right?  
Sergeant Harper suddenly slouched down next to him, giving him a sharp pat on the knee.

“Are you sorry we missed Man Love Thursday?”

Matt was perplexed, he had not expected that, not from Harper. It was a crude joke to begin with and coming from the older man just made it worse.  
It was the first of many derogatory terms he heard since coming to Iraq. It was said ‘A bird flies over Kandahar with one wing covering its butt.’

“Sir..?  
“At ease private, and hit the shower.”  
Matt couldn't help thinking there was something else there, had he seen him? Harper got up but instead of walking off he stayed a moment longer and ruffled the younger man’s hair with a heavy sigh. His hand warm and oddly soothing like he was quietly saying things would be ok. Matt felt better just thinking about the water and the smell from the Lever 2000 soap; which seems to be the only one they can get their hands on. He’s never going to buy it once he’s home, but in Iraq it’s familiar since everyone uses it. It’s the closest to a home they have.

~

Three months later, they still weren’t home and Harper has raised hell until his mug had been found, probably hidden away as a petty way of expressing their joint disappointment for the big lack of titties. Plus the house was huge, what else to do than hide shit?

And so they got called into menial assignments like guarding squares, keeping the peace, collecting bodies and what not.  
And of course: working out to Bloody Roots. Gradually things started to change, like always before the end of something. Like how you realize that classmate you never spoke to during class; is awesome the last week before graduation.

Ocre started to fit in, to loosen up. Things didn’t feel like they would break him. Or maybe they already had and what he was now was the result of that? A little less wide-eyed, a little more cynical about the world and people in general.  
He still reminded Harper of a teenager who lost his lunch money to a bigger and meaner student though. Always slouching like he was ashamed of his height, eyes fixed on the ground. But he was one of them now, a snotty little brother to the others who in turn had started to realize how to operate him. Like a ‘delicate coffee machine’; Harper even calls him one day. -Push the buttons in just the right order and you get something spectacular and for a while it’s not Ocre but Starbucks they call him.

Matt doesn’t like it.

Then it came, the order Harper was dreading, the first lieutenant didn’t give a rats ass about the boys thinking they were going home any day now. He saw a problem he needed fixing and he chooses Harper and his team because.. well, they were there. They were still available and this was the army. Not a goddamn playhouse.

So he sat down with the others in that room they eventually been forced into sharing after the palace had started to fill up with more people needing space for work and sleep and told them just like it was. If they really didn’t want in he could replace them but he’d rather not, still, he wore his best I-don’t-give-a-shit-face, shrugged and agreed to the only thing they asked for, a sat phone home.

However Ocre didn’t speak up, just looked forlorn and he knew he needed to push to get him to join. The others had the muscles and the courage but Matt had the brains and from what he could guess they were going to need that.

Later he tried calling his fiancé - Anne, but got the answering machine, as usual. How many times now? Four, five? He had almost started to forget what she sounds like, what was she doing? Sleeping? Meeting that cousin of hers? What’s his name again? Tom?

“Hey, sergeant, you done?”

Of course it’s Ocre with the sad, questioning eyes. They talk somehow he manages to conceive the younger to come. Guilt tripping - always gets the job done. He’s not proud of it but he needs someone smart with him and when private Ocre has his head in the game; he’s a fucking genius.

~

Baqubah is about thirty-one miles northeast of Baghdad on the Diyala River. The temperature ranged between ninety and a hundred degrees Fahrenheit and everyone was sweating their asses off, not to mention: balls. Thank god it was a desert climate, perspiration in an area with more humidity doesn’t do shit.  
They were eating salty snacks and dreaming of the ocean when they weren’t working, trying to repair the damage that had been caused by the Apaches, and maybe finding some Iraqis to help them. Or pay. Whatever got the job done.

Captain Syverson was just as enjoyable as everyone said he would be. Direct and uncompromising. Yet Matt liked him and Syverson liked dogs. You can’t be a bad person when you like dogs right? Then again; Hitler had a dog too.

Things went bad before it got better, they lost Chutsky at yet another attack on the water tank and all Matt could think about was the smirk on the sergeants face the first time they were repairing the tank, welding it back together with mismatching pieces of plate like it was a big quilt, ‘Texans can do anything’ he’d said before trying to rub his sweaty armpit against Ocres hair.

Back at the camp he couldn’t stop staring at the box, feeling that somehow it was his fault. Dylan Chutsky. All the stuff he owned in a green chest ready to be shipped home to Texas and whatever family he had there. Fucking war. Fucking water and fuck this objective!

They were fuming, things were said in anger while Harper tinkered away at his gun, listening but not really paying any attention. This was dangerous talking and they had to stop, otherwise, the mission would eat them up.

It was surprisingly Matt who figured it out, who to talk to and how. A teacher - Kadeer - he had met the first day turned it to be sympathetic. Otherwise they probably would have given up.  
Things were looking good again, like somehow they would actually be able to pull it off and they turned the evening into a sort of celebration. For their small victory. For Chutsky.

They started in their room before moving into the bigger mess hall. Ludacris was blasting on the car stereo hooked to a battery in the corner. Caps were littering the floor in bright colors and empty bottles of booze were discarded for new ones. They were playing Texas Hold ‘Em with Mahmoud, even though Syverson had warned them he was a natural which turned out to be quite an understatement, of course captain Syverson was sitting on one of the biggest crates around the table like a king on his throne, stacks of winnings around him.  
They ate salt pretzels like it didn’t happen every day, Enzo was throwing them into the air while Burton was catching them with his mouth. The old friends never caring much for “personal space”.

Matt knew when to fold, normally, now he was too buzzed and Harper was trying to get his attention, snapping his fingers in front of the younger one's face.  
Syverson and Mahmoud were the big winners, one of the captains men with a big beard were singing loudly to the music, not having anything left to bet anyhow.

“Hey, hey!” The sergeant finally lost patience and smacked him over the head, fixing him with those dark, serious eyes and Matt broke into a peculiar sweat, smiling sheepishly and finally put his cards down.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m up, I’m—“  
He had managed to get up but stumbled only to get caught by the shirt, Harper’s steady grip the only thing holding him up before a strong arm came around him.

“Yeah, Get him to bed Harper, kid’s too young to hold his liquor anyhow.” Syverson waved them off before dealing another hand.  
“Private Pussy!”  
“Fuck you Enzo, you— you-you shit!”  
“You shit? I’m hurt!” Enzo feigned being wounded and they were all laughing as Harper towed the young private to his bunk with his regular expression of boredom.

Matt rolled into bed with his boots and clothes on, pressed his face into the nicely smelling pillow with a happy sigh.  
“Ocre.. not that I mind a warm bed, but that one's mine. “  
“Why don’t you ever call me Matt?” He was slurring but it annoyed him, all this army shit, even when taking the night off.  
“Because then you would have to call me James. Come on, that’s it, up you go. Can you get the boots off yourself?”  
“Jamesss” The younger tried, his baby blue eyes unfocused and his mouth slightly open.  
Clean shaven he was pretty as a girl.  
Harper caught himself staring, cleared his throat and opened a water bottle from the nearby crate. Got to keep the men hydrated.  
“Here. And that’s Harper or sergeant Harper to you. Drink. Rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”  
“Yeah, I see you, Jay.”  
Harper turned to give him a look but Matt was already asleep.

~

The next day they are alone again. No Iraqis to help them finish and here he thought they were getting somewhere.  
“Have they changed their minds? Think something happened?”  
“Like what?”  
“I dunno.. trouble?”

They travel into town, Matt with a bad feeling in his gut and the deserted streets just affirming his suspicion.  
They go to the school to ask for the headmaster, smelling meat burning, thinking it’s lunch but once they get there and they see why and hear the wailing of the woman something just cracks in Ocre. Bile threatens to rise but he swallows it down, ripping the helmet off his head and stares. It’s Kadeer, they have hung him upside down and torched him.

He’s had it! The evil in this world, the fighting and for what? Fucking water? For power? Dominance over a desert!? Why fix something when the locals obviously didn’t want them there doing it anyway? Why be nice, play by the rules? Why the fuck bother to keep thinking there was good in people?

The military way of fixing it turns out to be the same as payback. More or less.  
Kadeer's brother finally breaks the silence as to where the “bad guys” are meeting at night and Syverson is quickly onboard. He must have wanted to take them out for weeks. If not months.  
And they plan to move out as soon as it’s dark, won’t risk the intel going bad or worse.

When Matt sees Harper again the sergeant is busy on the sat phone and from what he can hear; it’s not going too well.  
Now, why would that please him? Because somewhere deep inside it does, like he can’t stand the thought of Harper caring for someone else. Helping someone else to bed. He really has changed, hasn’t he? And not into someone better.  
“You good?”  
“Jup, Yeah, jup..”  
Was that a sniffle? Did he just dry his eyes? What happened to the ‘go hit the shower before you get too emotional’ that the sergeant told him to do in Baghdad?  
“Hey, bro, you know, we're finally gonna get a chance to get these guys. Then we can finish the pump station, fix it, go home..”  
Hey bro? Matt could kick himself.  
“Yeah..” Except, Harper doesn’t want to. Sees no reason to go home at all, not when Anne is moving out.

~

They move out and get into a blocking position, Enzo and Burton are keeping everyone from shitting their pants with their banter when suddenly there is contact. Everyone is busy where they need to be so all they can do is call it out and sit tight. There’ll be no backup before the other teams are done. So they do the best they can, grunting and cursing, Enzo is hurt, the thing is a mess, a total clusterfuck, or what did that crazy Texan always say?

Whoever said life slows down when you’re close to dying was wrong, it speeds up and all you can do it try to take cover and hope to god you’re faster than the enemy. Matt is scared and furious at the same time, trying his best to cover everyone else. Won’t let anyone else die from him as Chutsky did. There was contact at three and six, a sniper dicking around somewhere in the dark and probably more incoming. It was time to get the hell out of dodge and back to base.

He doesn’t know what hit the other vehicle. If it was a mortar, an anti-tank missile or something similar but the damage is massive and he yells, feels the panic again as he jumps off the truck and goes to help, pulse banging away in his ears. Burton is a bloody mess and Enzo is freaking out. They load up the wounded soldier, racing back to base while requesting immediate medevac and from there Burton is transferred to the medical helicopter with Enzo refusing to leave his side and climbing in.

And there they are. Harper looks shaken for once, Matt is hyperventilating, can’t breathe, can’t see except for the Iraqis they’ve taken for questioning and before he knows it; he’s on one of them, bashing, cursing and trying to fight of Harper when the older man tries to pull him off. It takes Syverson for him to come to his senses and when he does he’s cradled by the sergeant being held hard until he calms down.

Ocre is being towed back to the bunk once again, after being told a rack out would probably do him good. Yeah, like hell.  
He sits on one of the chairs with Harper in front of him, barely visible due to the light being out and only the moon shining in. Outside the activity is still buzzing and the captured men are probably having an unpleasant talk with Syverson and Mahmoud. Harper is resting his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, sighing heavily before looking up with that expression Matt has come to hate. That bored face, that ever patient look in his eyes.  
No wonder his fiance is leaving him if he wore that face with her too. Like he’s just waiting out people, competing over who gave the least amount of fucks.  
“Go to bed Ocre.”  
“No.”  
“No?” He raised his brows at that, like he wasn’t expecting to be disobeyed now that the kid was sober.  
“No.. sir” Matt added. He wanted to be left alone, wanted to hurt something, get plastered, cry his eyes out but Harper had other plans, grabbed his ankle and pulled on him so fast and so hard he slipped out of the chair, down on his ass on the hard concrete floor.  
“Ow, what the hell man?!”  
“Damn it Ocre, you think you’re the only one having a hard time?!” He crouches over him, trying to loosen the fasteners of his outer tactical vest.  
“Get off me! Get off!” He struggles but Harper has done this before, he’s fast and meticulous, his grip strong and before Matt knows it; he’s in his sweaty t-shirt with his pants around his legs, the boots still being on and the jacket pulling his arms down and close to his body like restraints. 

Another day he will wonder why or rather how Harper learned to do that. Now he’s only pissed off.

Ocre quiets down, he is still breathing heavily and glaring up at Harper with those blue eyes dark with anger and confusion and James waits, straddling him but unwilling to move until Matt has calmed down.

“You want to stay like this, private? Or do you want to get up?”  
“I want to get up..” It’s almost a whisper and Harper cups a hand behind his ear as a sign for him to speak up.  
“I want to get up, sir!”  
Harper stands effortlessly, like his tactical gear doesn't weigh him down the slightest and he sits down on his bed again without giving the younger one a gloved hand.

Matt feels humiliated, yet he wiggles out of the jacket before he tugs his boots off, kicking the army pants off into a corner and pulls on the socks that's wet with sweat only to ball them up and throw them after the rest. Everything hurts and he needs a shower. He needs to know Burton is going to be alright and that’s when the tear starts rolling and he wipes at them, tries to pull on his snot without making a high sniffle.

“Come here” Harper points to the spot in front of him and even though Matt wants to answer: ‘what for?’ He does it. Crawls the short distance on his knees with his gaze lowered as the sergeant uses his teeth to slowly remove his gloves, bites down on a leathery finger and pulls.  
He starts by just running his hands through Ocres wet hair and Matt eventually closes his eyes, just wants a friendly touch instead of all these bullets and deaths.

The stroking becomes irregular, harder and before he knows it the sergeant is gripping the short hair in a fist and forces his head back, he then shifts on the bed, his knees almost in the Ocres chest before he leans forward, hesitates, then there is a feeling of stubble on Matts' neck before soft lips press against the salty skin.

Matt stiffens, and Harper stops moving. His pulse becomes this loud banging and he’s sure the sergeant has to hear it. He’s not-- He never thought-- oh but he wants this, fucking needs it!  
But how to convey it without making an ass out of himself?  
Ocre places his hands on Harpers' knees, changes his mind and slides them further into the warm thighs, less to misinterpret right? He wants to tighten the grip, feel the muscles underneath the thin layer of skin and cloth. Feel all those parts of Harper that’s always been off limits. Or maybe they still are? The older man hasn’t moved yet.  
“Sir?..”

The kiss is hard, more desperate than anything and they both strain to breathe through the nose as their lips just press together. Then Harper angles his head and it deepens, tongues meeting and fluttering, rubbing against the other in slow strokes before the sergeant takes control over that as well, his mouth demanding, wet and hot, his fists around the collar of Matts t-shirt and the younger feels himself harden almost in a second, just like when he was a young teen and anything remotely sexy made him cum in his pants, now with the whole situation pressing down on him his dick is painfully rigid.

The bunk is designed for two yes, but they're meant to sleep on two different levels and being as tall as Matt was a problem when he was pulled up and onto the older, straddling his legs this time and kissing. Kissing like he was back in high school.

Harper is still fully clothed but he’s laying back, propped up by his pillow and the wall. It’s not really comfortable and his back will kill him tomorrow but he’s running his hands over Ocres legs, his small, soft butt behind his sand-colored boxers. A ticklish spot seeing how Matt buckles on top of him which makes his hard on so much obvious. It’s sweet in a way - the private being so anxious to please. He pulls Matt’s t-shirt off, the dog tags slapping softly against his chest before Harper uses them to pull the private in for another deep kiss.

It starts to quiet down outside and they both stop and freeze when they hear a sound coming from inside the house but it’s someone going to another room, the brightness from a faint flashlight disappearing as whoever it was closing his door.  
Matt tries to rise in order to close theirs but Harper holds him down, he puts a hand hard over his mouth and Ocre wonders if he hears something else that he did not when a hand suddenly joins his dick inside of his already cramped boxers and he gasps as much as he can, a calloused finger diving into his wet mouth for him to bite down on.  
“Shut up private.”  
Harper's whisper is more a course hiss and Ocre nods swiftly. If the older soldier keeps his hand where it is he’ll do anything.

It’s not sensual or romantic but it is what Ocre needs, he’s already leaking precum and the sergeant uses it to pull on his dick, holds him close with that hand over his mouth and takes a sort of twisted comfort from taking care of his last remaining boy. The younger is moaning but trying very hard to be quiet as he twitches and tautens, his long feet digging its heels into the mattress next to Harpers boots, fisting the thin army blanket beneath.

When he comes it’s like a small geyser down there from months not having the privacy nor the confidence the others had to just grab a porno and head to the can. He shudders and clings to the sergeant before remembering where he was and more importantly; with who, and he tries to gain some distance but Harper pulls him close. Sticky boxers and all.

“Go to sleep Ocre. I’ve got you.”  
And Matt closes his eyes, falls into something more like a coma. He doesn’t remember dreaming, turning around or even getting up but when he wakes up Harper is gone.  
He washes, pulls on a pair of fresh boxers and the uniform. He has to look a while after the boots, can’t remember where he threw them the evening before.

Without a chow hall they ate the breakfast they could get their hands on, usually, it was fruits or those one-bowl-cereals they could eat dry. Ocre grabbed an orange, saw Harper sitting with captain Syverson, holding his favorite mug and looking smug.

Maybe things would turn out alright? Maybe today would be a beautiful goddamn day for the infantry.


End file.
